


Her Grace Above the Waves

by deathwailart



Series: The Holy Sea [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Asexual Character, Character Study, Coming of Age, F/M, Gen, Living Myths, Mythology - Freeform, Performative Rulers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you were born, Leandra," her mother always liked to tell her, "Every bell in Castileos sounded; the bells in the castle, the bells in the town, the bells of every ship in port but even the bells of our braves Sons and Brides at sea upon their ship knew. Beneath the waves every undersea bell rang too. The sea came alive for you. You are the sea, Leandra, remember that."</p>
<p>Or Leandra, queen of Castileos, a country that believes they came from the sea and mermaids and how she shapes her own mythos as she becomes queen.</p>
<p>Part of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/718075/chapters/3669179">The Holy Sea</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Grace Above the Waves

"When you were born, Leandra," her mother always liked to tell her, "every bell in Castileos sounded; the bells in the castle, the bells in the town, the bells of every ship in port but even the bells of our braves Sons and Brides at sea upon their ship knew. Beneath the waves every undersea bell rang too. The sea came alive for you. You are the sea, Leandra, remember that." Her mother had held her hands tight in both of hers each time the story had been told until Leandra promised and then promised again that she would remember. It hadn't been her favourite story as a child – well for a time it had, when she'd been very small, likely around the first time she heard it and remembered, enthralled by the magic of it all, that for one day all of Castileos and the seas of Terradeos bordering each and every continent knew her name and that Leandra, merblooded Leandra, had come into the world – but she understands now that it needn't be her favourite. What matters is that she knows it as surely as her name; it captured her heart and mind when her mother told her because the surety of her mother's gaze, the quiet authority in her mother's voice had told her all she needed to know: her mother believed. Each morning when she rose, and even to this day, before servants come to dress her, style her hair and apply her makeup, sits before the vanity, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin as she repeats the last words over and over.  
  
"I am the sea."  
  
She is Leandra; golden skin and red-brown hair that falls in loose waves to the middle of her back, blue-green eyes ( _the colour of the summer waters_ , so many say, _by the southern islands where the waves lap at white sands_ ), round and wide that sometimes make her look far younger than she is. Of average height though her garb and heeled shoes hidden beneath her long skirts and dresses often make her appear taller than she is as befits royalty and years of lessons on regal bearing make her stand tall no matter the situation. Some call her curvaceous though she doesn't think herself particularly slender; her hips are wide and round, another sign that her merblood is strong because clearly those hips would once have been a tail and with hips like hers, it gives the illusion of any waist tapering into them. A round face, almost moon shaped, full lips and a small nose, the tip turning up just a touch and that is Leandra, the long awaited daughter of the queen and prince consort. _A pearl takes time_ , she remembers, mother's wisdom again, _just a speck but give it time and it becomes something spectacular._ It's the way most Castilean women refer to any pregnancy but Leandra knows she took many years; her father's hair more grey than brown, lines crinkling the corners of her mother's eyes and around her mouth when she laughs. _The sea was not ready to give me up_ , she tells herself when the servants come to lace her into boned corsets that exaggerate her hips and raise her bust so that she resembles figureheads on the prows of their great ships for that is what she is and must be. Even as a little girl she took to her role with a pose and grace far older than her years, eyes solemn and focused, the shadow behind her mother, always watching. Devouring each and every lesson, high voice above all others as she sang praises to the waves in cathedrals before the pulpit fashioned from an old figurehead salvaged from a ship lost at sea, cast in half a hundred colours from the stained beach glass ceilings and windows. Learning manners from salons her mother held with Brides of the Sea, the holy prostitutes married to the sea who aspire always to be as like the mermaids as they can for those above the waves. Providing the healing embrace of the sea with their bodies, their words and arms and lips and soft sighs. And from the meetings with the Sons of the Sea when they came to receive their letters of marque and to tell her mother of the world, of those who saw being on the seas as a holy calling, reminding all others on the waters of where they came from.  
  
_You must remember that the sea is in the blood of all, even those who have forgotten. You are their queen but it is a privilege, not a right. If you are a good queen they will love you in both the quietest calm and the deadliest storm._  
  
She closes her eyes as a band of netting is pressed against her eyes, soft brushes laden with eye shadow swept across the lids and up past her brow to her temples, a quiet chatter as they discuss what shade goes where and how they should blend blue into green, where to apply hints of dazzling silver and white. A brush is pulled through her hair, soft bristles that make it glisten and then a silver comb (a gift from a captain shaped like a seahorse to wish her fertility in future years) to separate it in sections to be styled appropriately, braids and twists but most left loose and arrayed over her shoulders as in all the paintings of the mermaids they possess. She laughs and chatters with the girls as she always does, managing not to interrupt their efforts to fashion her into Leandra, Her Grace Above the Waves. This has been her life for years, Leandra dictating the night before as they help her prepare for bed how she should look for the next day; the sea made her and no one else nor will they ever. The sea will not be tamed nor dictated. Since the age of twelve and the first true formal engagements as the little princess and future queen she has chosen for herself, a ruler born. And lady too; no schooling needed to teach her how to behave or wear the airs and grace required of nobility around one another. Even today her council are amazed at what she accomplishes and accordingly she, somewhat always, has to admonish them with the same old words, that it costs nothing to be nice and to treat others as you wish to be treated. Not that they seem willing or able to grasp that the last does not mean what they think it does. Yes, she would wish to be respected but not because she is a queen but because she is a person and all should be accorded respect unless words or deeds revoke it. They consistently marvel at what she learns and knows; it is sad that they cling to their belief that she cannot possibly be as warm and pleasant without playing a game but people tell her things because she asks, says she cares and, most importantly, means it, with a small smile and a hand upon their arm.  
  
_They forget that the sea is kind; look at how we thrive upon the bounty_ , she thinks, _Look how rarely our ships founder on the rocks or lose people upon it. I am the sea and the sea is not always cruel._  
  
And yes, she does not always wish to be kind or nice or pleasant but she is queen with blood stretching back to the mercourt. She must lure and be in control even when she is not, a lesson learned from the Brides who instructed her in so many ways. How to bat her eyes and look up with a smile so that men would pledge her anything. All the honeyed words to use to enthral them utterly. From the Sons she learned how to place a friendly hand on a shoulder and laugh to clear the tension, how to duel with words and wit and still be seen as a friend. From her mother it's always stories, always old words about the sea and the mercourt and she weaves them together and fashion Queen Leandra, Her Grace Above the Waves, Sea-Blooded as the Mercourt, Her Radiance, Listener of the Seas. Young as she was she knew her role, her place; _I am the sea so they are my Brides and Sons and Mothers, Fathers, my people and teachers_. She knows how Castileos maintains power and that is through negotiation and the careful dance where she must lead even when she seems to follow. She knows that they cannot survive alone and that it would bring others great joy to see Castileos in their debt or bound to them – the bounty of the sea is rich indeed but there are things her home cannot provide that could beggar them if others had their way – so she studies strategy and how to build a strong alliance on her own terms for the good of her people even if not for her.  
  
It's Leandra who chooses her husband. Leandra who plans it from that first state visit from Corundus to Castileos when she is twelve and befriends Arsenio, also her age, one of the many royal children of the queen's harem. Two years and many letters later they have a firm friendship and a declaration of intent not a single parent or councillor or advisor can poke holes in and she smiles demurely as she and Arsenio sign their names on their betrothal. Corundus is rich in mining – raw fuel and ore and precious gems – as well as having lush pastures for grazing and fields of crops and orchards full of trees with strong ties of their own through marriages to bordering kingdoms. Wood for building she has from her father through her mother's marriage to him, most of the wood they use now to build their ships to keep their own few forests for times of great need. Castileos offers pearls and salt, rare and precious to Corundus, protection when their ships set sail, fish and oils and other bounties of the sea such as only her country can provide. Arsenio is handsome, brown skin and the most beautiful eyes Leandra has ever seen, a light green flecked with amber and gold, a mouth prone to smiling full of perfect teeth, his hair (thick and dense but soft to the touch) cropped close after his first visit; a dear friend with their letters exchanged at least twice a month for the two years leading to the betrothal and with increasing frequency in the years leading to the wedding. Arsenio who longs to stay in Castileos to marvel at the art and lose himself in the vast libraries; not that Corundus is lacking but his eyes are to the horizon and it is something that drew her to him, a sign that even so long on the land for his blood he has that sea longing in him surely. He's her most treasured friend and they love one another and that is enough for them.  
  
No one needs to know more than that unless they wish it; Arsenio has no interest in anything beyond the touches they negotiate, no desire or interest in sex, something they spoke of so often in their letters. She loves him and he loves her, he's the one she wishes to be with for the rest of her life and one day they know they'll have to produce an heir (the source of many giggles when they do meet and discuss it with Arsenio's many siblings) but it will be many years before that becomes an issue. For now Arsenio assures her that so long as she is open and honest with him that she is free to satisfy her desires – Corundus, much like Castileos, is less conservative than so many other countries. Multiple partners and a harem society hailing from their nomadic days in Corundus with bastards being considered no less than any child born in wedlock with parentage mattering little, all children raised as equals. Castileos is much the same with not only the Brides but the Consorts, the prostitutes who do not see it as a holy calling but a living they enjoy, the profession regulated by them, legal and normal, not a dirty secret or something to be ashamed of. But she knows her councillors are unhappy already with it and though Arsenio is not ashamed of who he is and is comfortable, for now they agree to show a united front and to tell no one. The people who matter know in Arsenio's own words.  
  
In the end they have their clear boundaries laid out and signals for when Arsenio does not wish to be touched. Their kisses are chaste save a select few required for the wedding and the wedding night itself is not spent the way she imagines most are. No frantic tearing of clothes and awkwardly fumbling but rather they plan the days ahead, palms pressed flat to one another, raising them occasionally to one another's lips to kiss fingertips, a gesture Arsenio decided to be their kiss. It's a gesture of reverence in his country and it becomes their kiss in public when a brush of lips to the cheek or forehead are inappropriate or impossible either from her makeup or decoration. She takes him on tours of the palace and they finalise the selection of their complements of guards, the very best daughters, for her, and sons, for him, comprised of the very best noble children from other lands. A sort of friendly alliance based upon trust and she makes an effort to befriend them all and know them well so they might feel at home in a strange land they may not wish to be in; most are second children (or third or fourth and so on) who are spares in the eyes of their parents, not the heirs, sent off to a strange country so far from home, connected islands in the middle of the sea with the oldest culture in all the world. She wants them to see this as their home, to love it as she does and she knows it will be easier on them all if they are happy and their parents see they have good lives here with her and Arsenio. She and Arsenio share a bed more often than they don't because they're aware of how people will gossip if the newlyweds do not sleep together and because Arsenio likes to sleep close to someone else, homesick for the harem and all his many siblings, used to others being there, a tangle of arms and legs, soft sighs and murmurs. Leandra has never shared a bed but finds she likes it, talking late into the night of courtly intrigues with someone she can trust who will be honest and will keep any discussions between them in the strictest confidence. He's the first person outside her family to see Leandra as herself and not what she makes herself for the world. She enjoys holding him and being held, him playing with her hair, her rubbing the ache from his neck and shoulders from days spent curled in chairs reading or craning his neck at all the sights as they continue to make plans, read missives and write letters. But sometimes they sleep alone; Arsenio might read late or spend the night with his guards playing games of chance or cards or showing them around the palace, getting to know them better and Leandra does much the same. But then she finds herself taking on more and more responsibilities as her father grows ill and her mother withdraws to spend more time with him. Or sometimes they just want to be alone, a rare luxury when guards and servants and councillors trail in their wake.  
  
She is young when her father passes, her wedding vows still fresh upon her lips. They give his body back to the sea as her mother weeps and drapes herself in veils of net to lead the solemn procession and even with Arsenio at her side, holding her hand and pressing kisses to her cheeks and brow she feels achingly alone, cast adrift and floundering, barely keeping her head above water. When she weeps as she takes her place to speak well of her father, she proclaims that the sea weeps too in her sonorous lilting voice, picturing her voice as the waves crashing against the rocks. _I am the sea, the sea grieves as I grieve._ The Brides arm-in-arm with the Sons raise their voices in song as they board the ships that fill the waters as far as the eye can see, keeping vigil as her father goes to his final resting place, her father who embraced Castileos when he came here to marry just as Arsenio has. The Consorts weep and wail, offering themselves to those in need of consoling and the old woman soothsayers and fortune tellers press tokens into her palms, kissing the tears from her cheeks. She watches her father sink beneath the waves and remembers the undersea bells that heralded her arrival to the world. Soon after her mother steps down, seeming old suddenly, much of her joy gone, wishing to be closer to the sea to hear her husband's name whispered by the waves and Leandra finds herself a queen.  
  
_I am the sea._ She kneels before a throne fashioned of driftwood and the deck and hull of an old ship. _I am the sea._ A crown of coral, shells and dried starfish rests upon her head. _I am the sea._  
  
Years later and she is the one to host salons with the Brides in dresses cut the same as theirs, professing her love of the seas with ropes of pearls cascading down her neck and a seahorse pendant for fertility tight against her throat. She is the one meeting with the Sons and commissioning miniature replicas of their ships to be worn in her hair as she hands out letters of marque and keeps track of their dealings. She clads her queensguard in outfits to match hers, more functional than her regal gowns and tight corsets, fitted jackets and long skirts that sweep the floor, but the same colours; whites and greys of the sky and waves, all shades of blue and green reminding them all of the sea and the kelp forests. Her dresses are the waves or sea foam, fabrics that catch the light and dazzle, some tight and sleek as scales, others that billow like sails. Her throne room is a stage; a high seat carved like a shell when discussing matters of state, her the pearl nestled comfortably, decorations to make it seem truly like the sea and her domain when she must impress or inspire and lower seats and simple carvings when her people come to ask her favour, approachable and familiar as the sea must be.  
  
_The sea came alive for me_ , she thinks, always. _I am the sea_ , she remembers, always.


End file.
